


A Crooked Pin

by Squatchy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awkward Romance, Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Cats, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Pets, Post canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22450672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squatchy/pseuds/Squatchy
Summary: The angel always had something of a way with fauna, just as the demon had something of a way with flora. Crowley, however, was not so affectionate with his plants, and he had yet to hear his friend strike the fear of Aziraphale into the cat's tiny heart.But he eagerly awaited the day.In which Aziraphale gets a cat, and Crowley is none too pleased.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These characters are not mine, and they will never be mine, I just enjoy writing them. Quoted song lyrics belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber, T. S. Eliot, et al., and Freddie Mercury, respectively.
> 
> Also, I have been sitting on this for far too long, so here. Have at.
> 
> … And I still haven’t seen _Cats_ (the movie).

_Remark the Cat who hesitates towards you_

_In the light of the door which opens on her like a grin_

_You see the border of her coat is torn and stained with sand_

_And you see the corner of her eye twist like a crooked pin_

_-_ “Grizabella: The Glamour Cat” ( _Cats_ )

Music by Andrew Lloyd Webber, Lyrics adapted from T. S. Eliot

Crowley was staring down that horrid beast again, as it lay there on the musty, dusty bookstore carpet, just to prove that he could. And to maybe break his previous stare time record, which wasn’t much at all if he was being completely honest.

From the vertical slitted pupils to the shocking yellow hue, demon and animal eyes were distressingly similar. But all similarities ended there. The cat itself--for that is what it was, your everyday _felis catus_ in all it’s self-licking, flea-riddled glory--was so bizarre in appearance (with its flat face, bulging eyeballs, and ungainly underbite*) that this staring contest was more a feat of aesthetic endurance on Crowley's part than anything else. 

Not a full minute had passed before the demon, who rarely ever blinked, had to do so to end this visual torment. The feline had been occupying Aziraphale's shop for only a few days, but Crowley had had enough.

"What on Heaven and Earth are you _doing?_ " exclaimed Aziraphale as he walked into the room.

The demon, still crouching low to the floor, looked up from his (potential) foe. He put on his sunglasses, previously resting atop his head, and lied to his angel friend like a snake. 

“Just, er, admiring the little fella.”

Crowley slowly reached his hand towards the thing to pet it.

It hissed at him, baring those misshapen fangs. 

He saw fit to hiss right back, with a forked tongue on threatening display.

“Stop that at once, Crowley!” Aziraphale chastised. “And _she_ is not a _fella_ , by the by. I double-checked with Anathema to be certain. You recall the lovely young woman you crashed into as she was riding her bike that fateful night? She was with us all at the Nearly-End-Times?"

“I do recall, yes,” said Crowley, as Aziraphale would never let him forget. “And didn’t you once abscond with her ancestor’s priceless book of prophecies, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale chose to ignore this last part. "Such a clever thing that Anathema. She would know a thing or two about cats, being something of a wi—or, erm, ‘practical occultist,' I should say."

The demon was conceiving an idea as he stood up. "So, as something of a ‘practical occultist’--as you so put it--might she be keen on adopting one for _herself?_ "

“She is! Or, she _was_. That nice Pulsifer lad she’s been living with turned out to be frightfully allergic. Poor chap. So many _hives_ ,” the angel said, as his face took on a grim pallor at the memory. “Luckily, she got a good bit of examining in before her young man had to be rushed to hospital. Oh, but his symptoms have since improved, in case you-?”

“Yeah, don’t care,” Crowley said, that idea nixed. “What _else_ , angel?”

"No sign of fleas or ticks or anything of the sort," Aziraphale declared with pride. "Anathema also read her feline aura and found out she was female this way. A most discreet method, I might add. Though I, erm, concluded that the cat was spayed. I unintentionally spotted the stitches. By her… _nether region._ ”

Aziraphale said these last two words in a directed whisper. As if the cat could hear him, let alone understand him, and feel even a hint of embarrassment.

But Crowley wasn't concerned with that. He couldn't believe he heard the phrase "nether region" pour out of his prim and proper friend's mouth, and _not_ about a particular demon-infested realm, either. 

After coming to from this odd bit of character development, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief for the rest of cat-kind, and the world at large. The creature wouldn't have the opportunity to pass on her ghastly genes.

"Alas," Aziraphale said, looking down at the feline with a sigh. "No sign of identification either. The poor lost soul."

The angel tried to make that come across as pitying. Crowley, on the other hand, heard only subdued elation. For Aziraphale was far from the best actor, no matter how much Shakespeare he’s greedily ingested over the years. And the demon was highly dubious about the cat even _having_ a soul, but he won’t broach that topic just yet.

"Well, being _a she_ makes sense,” Crowley said. “I mean, for a cat, she’s a right old bi-“

Aziraphale shushed him and picked the feline up in tender arms as she molded herself into his embrace, with nary a hiss. 

The angel always had something of a way with fauna, just as the demon had something of a way with flora. Crowley, however, was not so affectionate with his plants, and he had yet to hear his friend strike the fear of Aziraphale into the cat's tiny heart. 

But he eagerly awaited the day.

“I will not have you insult this divine animal, this noble beast, this—say! I like the sound of that. _Beast._ How about you, my dear?” Aziraphale asked of the cat, as though expecting an answer.

“You think it wise to name the thing?”

Aziraphale continued to pay Crowley no mind, cooing at the small, fluffy mass in his arms. The demon opted to cross his own arms, in a petulant huff.

The present scene between angel and animal may have been adorable from his vantage point, had the cat been anything else. Like a scorpion. Or a Gila monster. Or one of those lovably gelatinous blobfishes.

To top it off, hearing the name "Beast" only served to remind Crowley of the young Antichrist, and his loyal, dog-shaped compatriot in particular. The demon delighted at the possibility of introducing the two animals, as a sort of infernal playdate. 

Though upon remembering how petite the Hellhound's chosen form was last he saw it, Crowley wondered if the cat of roughly equivalent size wouldn't have been the one to play predator to the canine's prey. Or if she would merely frighten the hapless pup off with her signature haunted/haunting gaze. Crowley was somewhat unnerved by her himself, and he could take on all sorts of unfathomable forms.

Aziraphale left the room with cat in tow, yelling back, “Crowley dear, does this café have outdoor seating?”

The demon had almost forgotten his primary purpose in being here; their planned lunch date. "They have tables set up out front, yeah."

“Fantastic! It’s such a gorgeous day, why waste it? Speaking of, I think we should walk there. If it's not too far?"

“It’s not. But we should get a move on if-” 

Crowley paused as Aziraphale re-entered the room, pushing an antique, lace-covered pram, with the cat henceforth known as Beast bundled up inside. 

She did not seem pleased with this. Then again, that was her default look, to begin with. 

Crowley wouldn't blame her, though. The entire spectacle was downright absurd, not to mention the matching bonnet Aziraphale tied around her head, which did nothing to improve her complexion. He almost felt sorry for the cat; keyword, _almost_. He tried to suppress a laugh at her expense, and it was impossible.

“What are you snickering about?” said Aziraphale.

“The little bundle of joy you got there, angel. She take after her mum?” 

“Very funny. Surely you don’t expect me to have her on a _lead_ , do you? That’s more a dog thing. Or a small, hyperactive child at an amusement park thing. And I happened to have this clever contraption (with bonnet) in storage by marvelous coincidence. Plus that sun is so _bright_.”

Crowley was dumbfounded. “You don’t mean…?”

***

Much to Crowley’s dismay, Aziraphale did intend to take the cat with them on their outing--and not leaving her alone at the shop, as that would be “callous” in these early days--and the demon had no power to stop him. Crowley had been looking forward to the event all day, so he begrudgingly conceded. 

It was a strange sight to behold, even on the streets of Soho; a pair of sharply contrasting man-shaped entities, walking side-by-side with their be-whiskered charge and pushing her along in what appeared to be a Victoria-era baby buggy. 

Not quite your typical family unit, though those have changed a great deal over the centuries, as Crowley and Aziraphale could so readily attest.

As they strolled, and as the feline carried on with that dreadful stare of her's in his periphery, Crowley felt it the right time to ask, "Angel, didn't you say yourself the cat was in tip-top shape when you found her?"

“I like to think _she_ found _me_ , right, dear girl? Just slunk through the open shop door one fateful morn, as if you belonged?"

With one hand still on the pram, the angel scratched the area beneath the cat's chin (or whatever passed for it on that squished-in face). She purred like she had forgiven him this slight to her dignity. As if the creature knew the meaning of the word. Or knew words period.

“And!” Crowley pressed on, desperately trying to avoid any more cat-related distractions. “Seeing as how well-fed and well-groomed she was, and how _fixed_ , this must imply prior ownership, eh? Even without proper I.D.?”

The demon gestured to the feline’s coat of long, clean, silvery-white fur. “I mean, no common alley cat would have fur like _this_ -”

Beast swiped at his outstretched hand, and Crowley retracted. He saw no scratches on himself, but he felt the very air sting.

“Ngk-- _hey_!” the demon spat out. “I was giving you a compliment, you ungrateful, inbred-!” 

Aziraphale glowered at Crowley, and the demon shut his mouth tight before he could spout any further profanities. 

At first unfazed that the current object of his affections almost grievously injured his oldest and dearest friend, the angel did bother to glance his hand over for any scratch marks. Crowley at least took comfort in that.

"Do be wary of those claws, Crowley. She can't help herself. It's those protective animal instincts. Almost got me when I first brushed her, though she is a sweetheart to her core if you give her a chance." 

“Did her little kitty aura clue you in on this too?”

“Quiet, you,” Aziraphale playfully clapped the demon on the shoulder. At least _his_ claws weren’t extended. “And in case you were wondering; yes, I do have flyers.”

Crowley felt a modest ripple of relief, and one he hoped to expand into a full-on wave. "Flyers? Like the kind you see around here, for lost and found pets? Are there any up now, might I see?"

“ _Someone’s_ excited,” Aziraphale said in his most accusatory tone, prompting Crowley to dial it down a tad lest he hurt Beast’s nonexistent feelings again. “And not yet, the copies are back at the shop. I just had them printed out, after all. We’ll put them up in due course.” 

Aziraphale stopped the pram abruptly, in front of a bustling little eatery with some prime outdoor seating lying in wait. 

“Is this the place?” the angel asked.

Crowley was barely paying heed himself, but they did in fact make it to the sought after café.

As the duo drank and dined--or simply drank, in Crowley’s case--fellow patrons would ask them about the charmingly old-fashioned stroller, and whatever precious thing of theirs was lying in wait inside. Crowley didn’t know whether to warn them (Aziraphale’s influence) or let them be horrified (his demonic nature at play). More often than not, they would say something along the lines of, “She’s so… _unique!_ Congratulations?”

They would then proceed to back away. Far, _far_ away. And try to forget the whole harrowing ordeal ever happened.

But it would be in vain, as no one could forget Beast. Her face imprinted itself onto your mind for the rest of your days, and well beyond. It was one of the few verging on positive things Crowley could say about her. That and her admittedly nice fur coat. She had all the makings of a genuinely diabolical creation, though he doubted his former employer would unleash the likes of her unto the world. Hell wouldn't be _that_ cruel, would it?

Aziraphale, meanwhile, wasn't blind to the cat's features. He simply paid no mind to what others thought. After all, fondness for the unconventional was one of the angel's many endearing quiddities. 

It was only natural for him to fall for something like Beast, however baffling the notion may be. Such a trait also made him utterly unique amongst others of his stock, who wouldn't dare fall for anything, let alone any _one_. 

They had a valid justification for being so cautious. Angels that fell in the past—in the somewhat more literal sense, anyhow—wound up like Crowley. And although he may now get a claw mark (or several) on him, Aziraphale wouldn't have the bruises to show for _this_ type of descent.

“… But I sure do. They never went _away_ ," said Crowley, emboldened by wine. 

“Mm-hm,” said Aziraphale.

“Not since that fate--that fateful day. You remember that day? I remember that day. You _must_ remember that day, angel, you were there! I Fell _foreverrrr_ until I didn’t. Pretty sure God invented pain right at the moment of im--imp--when I hit the sssodding ground.”

The demon took another big swig. “And I got bruises all over _._ Bloody great big ones. Weird shapes too! Does--doesn’t matter if I’ve a proper body or not, or what form I take. They’re. Always _._ There _._ ” 

“That’s nice, dear,” said the angel, his attention almost firmly on the cat. “Do mind the tablecloth.”

Crowley was waving his arms around during this little monologue, spilling precious drops of booze on the bright white linen as a result. Beast doesn’t seem as bothered by the display. Then again, Crowley hasn’t gotten any wine on _her_ yet.

“I could show ‘em to you sometime, angel,” Crowley remarked, finally putting his hands down, and resting the half-drunk glass of wine back on the table. 

He worked the tip of his index finger slowly, deliberately, along the rim of the glass, gazing into that blood-red abyss. And not at Aziraphale. 

“I’d be happy to show you _more…_ if you’d like.”

"Huh? What's that you say?" Aziraphale is far too preoccupied in his attempt to make the cat nibble on a piece of fish.

Crowley’s mind was only now catching up to the words he uttered, not having processed the full weight of them just yet. 

But they felt weighty, nonetheless.

 _And vulnerable_ , the demon realized, embarrassment steadily creeping in. _And—and_ naked? _Oh, Satan, we are out in public!_

“Er, s’nothing!” Crowley protested. He wasn’t yet drunk enough to not regret _everything_ that slipped out of his stupid, besotted mouth. 

“ _Who’s_ nothing?”

The demon slid further down his chair, clutching the wine glass to his chest. “N-Never mind.”

By meal's end, Aziraphale will have gotten Beast to eat two cat-sized bites worth of fish, and Crowley will have downed three demon-sized bottles worth of wine. 

The two friends shared scant few words throughout the entire lunch so alcohol was essential.

***

They did eventually get around to putting up those flyers. Yet one quick read left Crowley feeling more dejected than he had before knowing of their existence. They hardly counted as "Found Cat" flyers at all. 

For one thing, Aziraphale used scarcely any text. Surprising, for one who was so literate. For another, most of it was taken up by a hastily scribbled map of Soho, and some areas beyond. The angel did take the trouble to include a requisite "YOU ARE HERE" arrow, which he miracle'd into changing position, depending on where the flyer itself was at any given time. A pretty smart trick, Crowley admitted. Though a far cry from what he was expecting.

The map also included a drawing of a cat in Beast’s cartoonish likeness, indicating her primary location/Aziraphale’s residence. This drawing, however, would disappear from off the page at frequent intervals. Fitting for something so cat-shaped, but most inconvenient for any lost cat owners on the search. Or any demons in need of their angelic companions to cease with their obnoxious obsessions.

To add further insult, Aziraphale was purposefully putting the flyers in the hardest to spot places. Crowley had to point this out to Aziraphale after he caught him in the act for the first, and by no means last, time. The angel looked a tad guilty, but then made a case for himself.

“If anyone was careless enough to lose the poor dear in the first place, then they should confront the challenge in finding her again head-on! Serves them right, I say. Leaving an innocent animal to fend for herself, on these filthy streets. It’s _shameful_ , I tell you,” said Aziraphale, stroking the soft, silvery coat of the not-so-innocent animal.

They had to bring Beast along in that pram, yet again. Crowley, however reluctantly, wanted to continue being in Aziraphale's good graces by volunteering to push her around as they covered a broad enough area. Plus the demon was at the ideal angle where he didn't have to catch the thing eyeing him with those... _eyes_ of hers. And he could roll across all sorts of cracks and bumps along the pavement to give Beast a memorable ride.

Crowley was so caught up in torturing the cat, in fact, that he (and Aziraphale too, he’ll claim) initially failed to notice the vast majority of the hundred or so flyers wafting themselves into some nearby skip bins. And on a breeze which had only just decided to exist for that reason, and that reason alone. 

***

In all his time on Earth, picking up useful factoids here and there, Crowley recalled the controversial use of spray bottles in disciplining unruly pets. 

Fortunately for him, Crowley happened to have one at his disposal. And in keeping with his new favorite hobby--of tormenting a creature which would've done the same to him had she sported opposable thumbs (Crowley silently thanked God for that, if nothing else)--the demon would spritz Beast in her wretched face whenever she happened to be in the same room. And, thankfully, whenever Aziraphale was not.

Sure enough, Crowley was caught wet-handed by the eight or ninth instance of this, and Aziraphale was furious. Not only was the demon risking potential damage to his invaluable tomes—“It’s only a _little_ moisture, angel!"—he was also being wildly unfair to Beast. She wasn't doing anything remotely worthy of his so-called "discipline," Aziraphale avowed.

“… Far as you can tell,” Crowley countered. “And at least I’m not using holy water. The kind from the tap seems to have a similar effect.”

The angel scowled with all the righteous rage he could muster.

“What? I don’t even have a drop left of what you gave me, remember?”

"Of course I remember, you fiend! I'm appalled as to why you would even joke about such a thing. And to equate Beast with the likes of, well, _yourself_.”

Crowley couldn't tell if this was a direct insult and simply replied, "Ouch?"

"Oh, I don't mean it like that. I wouldn't go equating her with the likes of _myself_ either. She's no ‘alumnus of Heaven and Hell,' she's an earthly creature," Aziraphale said, gazing down at the earthly creature--now licking her nether region--as though she held a place of heavenly esteem in his eyes. Which, when taking all evidence into account, she did.

And did the angel quote _Cats_? This information perturbs Crowley, and, worse yet, that he somehow knew the lyrics to said musical himself. 

Plus he couldn't recall the last time Aziraphale regarded him with such tenderness. He could switch out his eyewear, but even with the current set, it was plain to see just how at home Beast has become in his companion's heart, least of all his bookshop.

Clumps of silvery-white fur, scratch marks on all the furniture, several mouse and ball-shaped objects filled with catnip, and at least one noticeable carpet stain—which was _not_ caused by Crowley spilling anything this time, he swears it—littered the place.

The demon would also find those lightly colored hairs on his darkly colored clothing, like a stubborn magnet, no matter where he lurked or lounged in any given area of the shop. And every time Crowley would brush them off, they would instantly reappear, despite his best demonic efforts. He could see why witches fancied cats so much; they were practically magic by default.

And unlike other such businesses with cuddly critters on-site, Beast had the exact opposite effect; instead of encouraging passersby to stop and admire both the sizable collection of books _and_ the feline in residence, she would repel anyone foolhardy enough to enter in the first place. And after just one glance from her devastating visage. 

Truly she was an animal after Aziraphale's own book-hoarding heart.

Seeing they had yet to hear from the cat's rightful owners if at all, this whole situation grew less and less likely to change. And Crowley, though having made his presence palpable here since the shop first opened some centuries ago, was beginning to feel out of place for the very first time.

 _Or I could be overthinking it_ , he admitted to himself. _Perhaps a slight change of scenery was in order, to gain a better perspective?_

“Aziraphale, you know Beast is more than comfortable being on her own by now. Maybe you can close up shop, and we could spend some, er, quality time at my place? Just us two?”

Aziraphale pondered this. “Hm, I believe you are correct. She has been getting on well here, and I haven’t visited your flat in yonks.”

The angel was eyeing Crowley’s plant mister, still in hand, with a great deal of skepticism. “How have you been treating your plants lately, dear boy?”

“Er, good! I haven’t yelled any veiled threats at them in months," the demon said, truthfully. 

Though he neglected to mention his more wordless scare tactics, still in play. Crowley had that perfectly fine garbage disposal installed after all, and he had to use it for _something_ , if not actual food. He'll get rid of it, though, by some unplanned date.

Aziraphale did not appear convinced. "I don't know, Crowley. It goes beyond your greenery. Your flat isn't very—erm, how shall I put it—welcoming? Oh, I do feel awful saying this to you.”

The angel was genuinely peccant--the indicative nervous hand wringing helped--and yet he was right. Crowley designed the flat for the sole purpose of keeping up appearances; as the residence of one Anthony J. Crowley, Human. 

Because living as a supernatural being amongst humans (especially while in the employ of either Hell or Heaven) required the right sort of alias. For Crowley, it just so happened to be Anthony. And Anthony just so happened to not be a welcoming guy.

First of all, his flat was never meant to be occupied. Not in the way flats usually are, anyway. The interior itself was vast and dark, and even with the lights on and the room temperature raised, a patronizing coldness would still permeate the space, creeping through one’s insides, and daring anyone foolish enough--be they mortal or otherwise--to stay for longer than five minutes and not collapse in a heap of crushing insecurity. Though by then Mr. Crowley would have them not-so-kindly escorted out the door.

Because he had little patience for the distraction of company. And if company ever dared to distract him, then they should suffer for it. It’s only fair. 

And thanks in large part to this lack of company, all of the furniture and appliances remain virtually untouched. Up to and including the immaculately designed bed in the immaculately designed bedroom. Though Crowley still enjoyed the practice (of sleeping) on occasion, if not there. 

Second of all, it wasn't exactly the type of place one would find the type of person Aziraphale happened to be, as either human _or_ angel. A cursory glimpse of either dwelling should be enough to tell anyone as to why.

Aziraphale preferred warmth, clutter, and spaces that feel old, lived-in, and loved. 

Anthony Crowley had no such space to fit these criteria. The man clearly despised warmth, hated the very concept of clutter, equated oldness with total obsolescence, and was out of town so often, the only life that dared live in his abode was the vast array of skittish plants (but only because they had no say in the matter). 

And love was off the table entirely. He wouldn’t want it to leave a mark.

But Crowley knew he was not this man. Upon being loosed from Hell’s tight grip, he no longer had to _be_ this man. Because he was not a man _at all_. 

He was more himself now than he’s ever been, and he didn't even realize this, and what he valued most, until recently. Until the world almost came crashing to a halt, prompting some much-needed self-reflection on both his and Aziraphale's parts.

"It's alright, angel,” he said, after what felt like an age, even to an immortal being. “You, er, make a fair point." 

While Aziraphale kept himself busy around the shop, and Beast was being Beast (as per usual), the demon continued to reflect; if the angel--and by extension the beastly one--had their place, and Crowley had his, and if both sides were feeling pushed out of the other's for various reasons, then where did that leave the two of them? Is this what 6,000 plus years together ultimately amounted to? Would Crowley and Aziraphale proceed no further in their relationship?

Perhaps the solution was a sort of happy medium. A space between their corresponding spaces, for both angel and demon to call their very own. Together. 

And Crowley supposed Beast could tag along if she promised not to cough up anything gross, which was unlikely. But he would learn to deal. For Aziraphale's sake, if no one else's.

And the more he thought about it, the more Crowley grew to like this idea, and it gave him a renewed vigor. He then told a surprised Aziraphale--in the middle of organizing his perpetually disorganized books--that he had to be off already, but no need to worry. Only some critical, top-secret errands to run, that's all.

"Back in a flash, angel!”, he said, making his joyous exit from the shop.

***

Several hours had passed, so considerably more than a flash. But Crowley more or less found what he had been searching for, and couldn't wait to share the news with Aziraphale. He felt so ecstatic, he may even deign to kiss Beast on her unsightly head.

Making his way into the bookshop's backroom, Crowley didn't expect to find Aziraphale sitting on his sofa, with a tear-soaked face, and an unconcerned cat on his lap. 

Well, maybe that last part was expected. 

The angel’s laptop was open in front of him, hoisted on one of the multiple stacks of books covering his antique coffee table (which left little room for coffee let alone tea, cocoa, et cetera). From the looks of things, he had just finished watching something quite traumatizing and had run out of tissues. Crowley obtained a spare box from the angel’s desk and asked Aziraphale the matter while sitting down alongside him.

It turned out to be one of those recent dog-as-narrator type films. _A Dog’s Purposeful Journey Back Home_ it might've been called? Crowley didn't care. He just knew a lot of doggy death and rebirth—followed by even more death and rebirth—was involved in the overall plot. Talk about torture, and an ex-employee of Hell would know. Why on Earth would Aziraphale subject himself to this?

“Because it came so highly recommended! From the Internet-Flicks!” the angel managed to get out, with fresh tissue in hand.

“Aziraphale. You are not obligated to watch everything a site tells you to watch.”

“But they put in all that thoughtful effort to cater the selection to me.”

Crowley sighed. “That’s the _algorithm’s_ doing.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “… Oh.”

In hindsight, Crowley realized he would regret procuring that laptop for Aziraphale, and sharing his various streaming subscriptions in turn. He did it so they would have more chances to watch something enjoyable together. And to upgrade Aziraphale's pop culture knowledge, but that was only a bonus. Not once did Crowley take into account the plethora of soppy melodramas his overly sensitive friend was doomed to find. He knew the angel liked a cathartic cry now and then, but this was bordering on the excessive.

Crowley also hoped Aziraphale might be willing to attempt, say, a horror movie (but the likes of _Gremlins_ or _Gremlins 2_ to start, and even those may be pushing it), because Crowley would promise to be close by. 

He could offer his terrified companion a hand to hold. Or a protective arm over the shoulder. And, if the angel felt so inclined, the demon would gladly rest his head on any available lap—with the added benefit of hair stroking, to help soothe either party—should the cat be conveniently locked away in a nearby cupboard, for an untold number of hours…

“You should have seen it, though,” Aziraphale said, waking Crowley from his fantasy. “Yes, it was shamelessly manipulative, as American films often are. But the dogs were _so cute_.”

Beast emitted a low growl. Crowley worried that she may comprehend more than she lets on. Or he’s just tired. It’s been a long day. A long _month_.

"Sorry, my dear, you're cute too,” the angel told the feline with utmost sincerity, as only he can. 

Then he asked the demon, “Why do you suppose these stories only involve dogs? And not cats?"

Crowley opted to choose his words most carefully here. For Aziraphale. Obviously. “Because they aren’t quite as sociable?”

"That's a common misconception; cats are highly social animals. You really ought to read the book Anathema lent me on the species, it's fascinating. And she _did_ lend it to me, Crowley, don’t give me that cheeky look! I have every intention of getting it back to her.”

"Course you do," said the demon, pleasantly skeptical. "And I meant towards _people_. They call dogs ‘man's best friend' and so on."

"Well, I am an _angel_ , and I consider cats to be excellent friends, thank you very much," he said, lovingly scratching behind Beast's whiskers with both hands. "Besides, I don't think our dear girl would want to see her likeness in such things. They can get rather, erm, tragic, if not uplifting at times."

“Yeah, well, that’s death for you, angel. Even if it’s of the fictional variety.”

Aziraphale gave him a repelled look. It was the kind of look Crowley (or anyone aside from the angel) would give Beast. “Oh, must you bring that--that _word_ up now?”

“Which word?”

“You know. The _D_ -word!” 

“I’m not sure which ‘D-word’ you are referring to. D for _demon_? D for _di_ \--er, a shortened form of Richard?”

“No no no. I’m referring to _death_.”

“Ha! Made you say it!”

“And now you got me thinking about it! _Again!_ After I just finished a motion picture concerning the topic. Thank you _ever_ so much, Crowley.”

“You’re welcome,” said the demon, feeling smug. “And it wouldn’t _kill_ you to think about _death_ every now and then, angel. I happen to be thinking about it quite a lot lately.”

“Really? Do you _have_ to?” 

Crowley reckoned he didn’t have to, no. Though his current morbid mindset possibly stemmed from him wishing a gruesome fate on Beast more than a couple of times a day, ever since she first padded along into his and Aziraphale's shared world. 

Though he relegated these scenarios solely to his dark, twisted imagination, as the demon wouldn't harm a single whisker on that stupid cat, no matter how often he dreamt about it. Aziraphale would probably never forgive him anyway. 

And the demon was most assuredly no agent of Death, as he never acquired the taste for administering it outside of defensive circles. And even then it was more a necessity against other entities like himself, none of whom are technically living _or_ dead. But Beast was very much alive and, last he checked, her species did not have a great deal of longevity in store. The rumor about the nine lives notwithstanding.

“Why not, though? Death need not apply to us, but it will certainly apply to her,” said Crowley, carelessly gesturing to the feline as she licked her paw in blissful ignorance.

“Crowley!”

“Okay, so she’s got maybe 15-20 years on her, tops. Hardly a blip on the radar in the grander scheme, but you know that well enough. And I’m not counting the years she’s already lived, which could be a fair few. She’s no kitten, Aziraphale.”

The angel gasped, covering the creature’s ears. “I will kindly ask you _not_ to make unwarranted guesses at the dear lady’s age!”

"I'm only telling you this now, so you don't turn into, well, _this_ again,” Crowley indicated the piles of mucus-encrusted tissue paper strewn across the floor. “It always happens sooner than you think.”

"Ah, yes," Aziraphale said, sounding just about finished with this conversation. "That old adage. _Memento felem esse morituram._ ”**

“Don’t you Latin at me,” Crowley said, growing irritated. Their discussion was becoming heated enough as is, Aziraphale needn’t break out his dead language skills _just_ yet. “And don’t expect to resurrect the problem away, like with your magician’s doves!”

The angel may like the conversation to be over, but it seemed as though he had quite a lot more to say. That and the furry thing situated on his lap prevented him from leaving.

"Oh, _please._ As if our longstanding existence can't be so easily snuffed out,” Aziraphale continued, vehement. “Or do you not recall the trials, mine and yours, by hellfire and holy water respectively? I gave you the means to do away with yourself once too, after all. Even if it was only intended for ‘insurance,' as you so put it."

That last part certainly caught Crowley off guard. "Ngk--Angel, I, er-"

“God, Crowley, you are my best friend, and I still can’t believe I handed you a—a bloody H bomb***. Willingly! If a single drop had fallen on you, Heaven knows I could never live with myself again. I’d still _exist_ , but it would all be so hollow. ‘Death need not apply to us’ indeed,” Aziraphale scoffed. “What _rubbish_.”

The demon was momentarily stunned by the angel’s uncharacteristic use of the word bloody. Then he was stunned by all the other words. Then he collected himself. His joke about using holy water on the cat isn't so funny in this new context.

“I had no idea you felt this way.”

Aziraphale shut his eyes tightly and sighed. "Of course you didn't. You can be so… cold-blooded. So detached from such matters."

“I’m not _completely_ cold-blooded," said Crowley, irritated again. “Or detached! Er, all the time!”

“Oh?” the angel said, glaring at him straight on. “Are you not some empty, heartless husk then, hm? Might that explain it?”

The demon stewed with those words on repeat in his mind, and for what had to have been a solid minute, before he replied, “Heartless… husk? ”

Crowley may never claim to be, well, nice, which is a four-letter word he loathed above all four-letter words. But what Aziraphale implied of him stung like nothing else before it. Being "nice" had virtually jack all to do with having anything akin to a heart. The demon knew this all too well.

“Wow! _Gosh!_ You don’t say, angel,” Crowley said in his most venomous tone. “ _Am_ I empty inside? Oh, but we should take a gander, to be safe. Wouldn't you agree?" 

“What are you-?”

Crowley jumped on top of Aziraphale's book covered coffee table, narrowly missing the computer with his (presumably) snakeskin shoes. He began to remove his jacket. 

Aziraphale seemed simultaneously alarmed and intrigued. Beast was aloof, as always. 

“This is not amusing, Crowley, get _down_ from there!”

“But I have so much to show you!” 

The demon was set to tear open his rib cage, with his own hands no less, and bear his semblance of a heart to the angel then and there—or his lungs, kidneys, liver, etc.—if that was what it took. He was proud of the anatomical accuracy in fact, and felt the need to show it off, if not only to prove his point. Or to take a tired metaphor to its literal conclusion, for a change. 

He also wasn’t sure if he could pull such a stunt off successfully, without wrecking this human-like body beyond even his repair capabilities. (Not that he _needed_ it, but he did enjoy having one.) 

He might’ve done so once, in Byzantium--back when it _was_ Byzantium--and on a dare. But he was sufficiently sloshed at the time so it was hard to recall precise details. Still, he was a bit beyond caring at this juncture.

Crowley tossed the jacket aside. He flung his tie over his shoulder and began to undo both his vest and shirt.

"Enough!" Aziraphale yelled as he bolted up from his seat and a hissing Beast leaped to the floor. 

The angel's face was flushed with anger. And worry. And possibly one other thing. "Even if you do manage this _reckless_ thing, you could be discorporated, and—and then what? Be forced back to Hell, likely never to return? Is that what you want?”****

Crowley stopped mid-button. His mind was in such a state at the moment, he could barely remember what he wanted anymore.

“… No. But at least you’d still be here on Earth, Aziraphale. In this bookshop. With your precious _fucking_ pet.” 

They glared at one another. For what felt like eons.

“Go home, Crowley. _Now_.”

 _Home? There’s a laugh_ , thought the demon. “I came back because I had something to-”

“We are _done_ ,” Aziraphale said, with a brusque finality that appeared to pain both him and Crowley in equal measure.

“... Fine.” 

And so Crowley, after readjusting his clothes, jumped down from the coffee table. He grabbed his jacket from off the floor, sauntered out that front door into the chill of night, and left without so much as a glance over the shoulder.

But as much as he tried, the demon could not prevent himself from going over the preceding scene, minute by awful minute, during the entire dreary drive back to his so-called home. 

_By "done" surely Aziraphale didn't mean done-done, did he?_ Crowley fretted. _It was a heat of the moment sort of statement. Must've been. Yeah._

Upon reaching his destination, for the first time in a very long time, Crowley felt an overwhelming need for sleep. Not a want, but a bona fide _need_. 

_Even in a bedroom as unwelcoming as my own,_ he thought. 

_Inside a flat as cold and empty as this one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The cat takes much visual reference from the Internet's beloved "Grandma Cat," aka. Wilfred Warrior.  
> ** “Remember that the cat will die.”  
> *** H for Holy. Or Heavenly.
> 
> **** As of their last visits to Heaven and Hell, the angel and demon were set to be left to their own devices on Earth, and for the foreseeable future. Although any significant damage to their physical bodies could force either of them back to their respective realm for a reissue, after some extensive paperwork, as is standard protocol. 
> 
> But considering how unpopular they are in those places, they were not likely to be assigned new bodies, nor permitted a return to their beloved Earth, nor allowed to continue existing (as far as they're presently aware). However, Crowley wouldn't have gotten to such a point in harming his own body, as least as soon as his sense inevitably kicked in. 
> 
> He was merely putting on a defensive show. Like a cornered cobra expanding its hood. Or a sub-par exotic dancer with a job on the line, engaging in a desperate striptease just to prove that he can. But it's a toss-up either way. Aziraphale was justifiably concerned, though, when you consider their long history together. And the fact that they had yet to see one another fully disrobe didn't help the poor angel feel any less ruffled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship might be in trouble, and Crowley can't blame it all on the cat this time.

The next day, after an eerily restful night’s sleep--because that bed of his/Anthony’s was made for looks, not comfort, let alone anything approaching restful--Crowley drove from floral shop to floral shop in search of the most ostentatious bouquet he could find. 

Then he quickly returned the first one he bought for something a tad more befitting of Aziraphale's character; mostly white blooms, with hints of gold and pale blue, wrapped in brown and beige, all tied together with a tartan bow. ( _Perfect_.) The demon also congratulated himself for not coercing the flowers into remaining fresher longer lest they meet a grisly end back at his flat. The angel might appreciate that.

He even purchased a box of truffles from a nearby chocolatier the angel mentioned fancying once or twice. Not being able to recall any favorite flavors off-hand, he requested two of everything. He’ll make certain to ask Aziraphale next time.

Crowley drove his Bentley to the address of one A. Z. Fell, Rare Book Dealer. He stepped out, and approached the door, initially with considerable spring in his step. Then the demon's panic set in. 

Perhaps it was too soon, and Aziraphale had not yet forgiven him. Or perhaps it was too late, and Crowley should have crawled in last night like the lowly serpent he is, outright begging his companion to take him back. Perhaps flowers and chocolates were still too trite and had not yet come round to be charming clichés in this day and age. 

Or perhaps he was overthinking things again, and this was a minor lover's spat. Although this would be their first so early on into their budding romance. The two disagreed over things large and small across the millennia, but not like this, not at this stage.

Then again, Aziraphale said some rather harsh words to him. Crowley's timing may have been off at the start, and he may act insensitively towards his friend's sensitivity at the worst possible times, this is true (and should be worked on). But the angel dared accuse him of being heartless _,_ of all things, which may be true as well, seeing as it was a mere accessory for the likes of him and not a vital organ. 

Though in terms of symbolic hearts—emotions and all that nonsense—the demon suffered such a burden incessantly. Thanks in no small part to a certain someone in his purview he cared for, and all too deeply. Shouldn't Crowley let Aziraphale crawl back to _him_ this time? 

_But then I’d have to return the bloody gifts_ , he realized with a sigh. _What a conundrum_.

After much deliberation, Crowley at long last walked inside with gifts in hand. And if those didn’t work, there was always the third, less portable option, as yet to be revealed. And if _that_ didn’t work? Well… best not to think about it right now.

The demon could find neither angel nor cat, anywhere in sight. 

“Aziraphale? I’m back! And I brought truffles!”

The angel was by his side within milliseconds.

"What's this you say about truffles, dear?" Aziraphale opened the box, eyeing the full selection. "Ooh, how delecta—now wait a tick. Am I not meant to be livid with you? And are you not livid with me? And is this a means to tempt me out of our latest kerfuffle with some, I don't know, chocolate-coated distraction?"

“… Maybe?”

The angel was nonplussed. 

"Or we could be livid at one another some other day? In the far-flung future?" said Crowley.

Aziraphale contemplated this statement for a moment, and said, “Mm-hm, yes, sounds sensible. And flowers too?”

The demon handed him the bouquet. “They’re _gorgeous_ , Crowley, thank you! And such a fine choice of ribbon. Though I’m afraid I will have to place their vase in a locked-off room, on the topmost shelf, to be safe. Beast, bless her, does have a rather nasty habit of knocking over any container of liquid she can get her paws on. I cannot begin to fathom why.”

Crowley couldn't either, though from a purely mischievous perspective, it made absolute sense. Are cats former denizens of Hell after all? He barely even parsed this beforehand. Maybe he should be giving Beast the benefit of the doubt. But first things first.

“Say, angel? I know I said we can be, er, angry at each other later, if at all. But I am sorry for my poor behavior last night. And for being, er, inconsiderate towards your emotional plight. And the like. I’ll try—no, I _will_ do better. I promise.”

Aziraphale does not sway easily. But these statements appeared to sway him. And only because Crowley meant every word and then some.

“I know you will, and I’ll do better right alongside you. I was far too rash with you, Crowley, and I apologize. Although we all could have done without the, erm, coffee table bit.”

Crowley nodded in agreement. He’d much prefer he and Aziraphale forget that fiasco ever happened, but he nodded nonetheless.

“And you aren’t cold-blooded at all, dearest. Even as a snake. And you have heart in _spades_. Not that I require flowers, or chocolates, or even your facsimile of the organ on, erm, full display to see," Aziraphale blushed ever so slightly. "It should probably go without saying."

“Thank you for saying it anyway,” said Crowley, smiling.

"My pleasure," said Aziraphale as he smiled back.

They both stood there, silently regarding the other. 

Crowley, meanwhile, knew within his heart-shaped facsimile of heart-shaped facsimiles that he so desperately wanted to make the first move, however hesitant they both were at present. 

Aziraphale's lips were looking exceptionally soft, and ripe for the tasting. Likely because he had been preparing them for that first truffle--which Crowley would gladly take second or third place against in the ongoing race to reach such a goal. But seeing as the angel had set both the box of chocolates and flowers _down_ …

Crowley stepped ever closer. He lifted his shades, revealing eyes which he could only pray express every ounce of an all too human desire for connection (on multiple levels, where permitted), despite looking so very _in_ human. 

“Aziraphale. Mind if I-?”

"Yes! I mean, no! I mean _what?_ ”

“-kiss you?”

Aziraphale reacted as though he did not yet believe the most wondrous dream he could recall has finally, astonishingly, bled over into his reality.

" _Not at all!_ Er, I mean, _yes_. Jolly good. You may proceed.”

The demon took both of the angel's somewhat sweaty hands in his own and closed the rest of that accursed gap between them. 

Forehead rested on forehead, and Crowley basked in Aziraphale's warm glow. And, cold-blooded or not, Crowley has always craved that warmth. Although it took him long enough to comprehend this fully, he'll be the first to confess. 

With eyes glancing back at him half-lidded and cheeks tinged vivid pink, the angel, from this angle, was possibly more angelic than when he first laid snake-like eyes on him at The Beginning, even if he was about to do something on the cusp of downright sinful. And with a demon of all things.

Aziraphale took one more nervously excited, or excitedly nervous, gulp of air lingering between them (after Crowley teasingly reminded him that, yes, breathing was rather crucial to enhancing the overall effect). The angel, with eyes shut, parted his mouth slightly in anticipation (he didn't have to remind him of _that_ , to the demon’s delight). 

Crowley cupped a gentle hand on Aziraphale’s face, gravitating them further at the touch. 

And then their lips met.

But only for a few bliss-filled seconds because Beast finally saw fit to make her entrance. 

The pair were forced apart and back into mundane reality. The cat rubbed against each of their legs, in an almost serpentine path. She was mewling, and quite loudly at that, for food. Or undivided attention. Or— 

“Who gives a damn-blasted-HELL, cat! Can’t you see that we're in the middle of something-?”

“ _Crowleyyy_.”

“SORRY. I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale sighed in disappointment, and not only with Crowley’s continuously negative attitude towards his feline ward. He seemed just as eager to accomplish this long-awaited romantic milestone.

One hand was still clasped in the other. It took several more excruciating seconds for either of them to let go.

Aziraphale focused all of his energy on the other presence in the room. He was hunched over the cat, dangling some white feathers on a string that he procured from his coat pocket. Soon Beast had the fluffy, feathery clump within her clutches, and was gnawing on them with malformed fangs as she lay on the floor. 

Crowley was disturbed by a sudden realization; that the cat could be chewing on something plucked from the angel's very own wings. Then he suppressed this thought. The demon may need professional therapy after all this. It seems to work for a lot of people, why not a non-person like him?

With cat sufficiently diverted, Aziraphale turned around, and said, “I do apologize, dear. She does get needy at the most, erm, _inconvenient_ times.”

“S’alright, angel,” Crowley said with eyes closed, rubbing the root of his nose with thumb and forefinger as he held his glasses in the opposite hand.

Even so, the demon, as flustered as he was, had to hand it to her. The cat was something of an admirable bastard in her own right, even if entirely unaware of it. No wonder she got on so well with Aziraphale, and he got on with her in turn. She was just his type of favored individual if Crowley was any indication.

And, going against all sound judgment, Crowley ambled over to the spot where Beast lay. He would finally pet that insufferable animal. 

She neither hissed nor spat at him, and he felt her purring. It was not an unpleasant sensation.

“Crowley,” the angel said in awe. “You did the thing!”

“I did the thing,” Crowley said fondly, looking down at Beast with a modicum of affection.

“Oh, you have no idea how happy this makes me. Wait and see, you two will be getting on in _no_ time.”

“It’s, er, no rush at all!” 

The cat also refrained from scratching the demon as he stroked her silky-soft fur, and he was marginally grateful for this. Aziraphale sat down alongside him, once again making Beast the center of everything. The full extent of which she may never fully appreciate, but will doubtless lap up like a saucer of milk.

And try as he might, Crowley will _never_ get used to that face, but he will tolerate it, and the cat on the whole, because on the whole, the cat is more than a little alright. Because she makes Aziraphale happy. And a happy Aziraphale equates to a happy Crowley which equates back to a happy Aziraphale, and so on. That is what matters right now. 

Well, that and one other thing, Crowley finally remembered. “I meant to tell you something earlier. Since, er, yesterday, in fact.”

“About what?”

“I happened to-“

The bell for the shop door jingled, indicating potential customers to ward off. Beast took this as her cue and slinked towards the unknowing victims.

“Have at ‘em, Beast,” Crowley said, not even minding yet another disruption. The reactions of these people will be far too entertaining to pass up.

Aziraphale tried, and failed, not to mirror his enthusiasm. "I can't imagine why most people act in such a way towards her. Not that I mind when certain people do."

Crowley raised a curious brow at the angel. "Like a certain kind of bookish person? With money to spend? On _books?_ ” 

"I have a business to run, Crowley, I can't constantly be selling things!" Aziraphale said, the ridiculousness of his own words utterly lost on him. "And Beast might not win any beauty contests in the foreseeable future, but looks aren't everything. Plus she has the _sweetest_ temper-.”

“ _Grizabella!_ ” 

“Did you say something, dear?”

“My voice doesn’t quite reach that high of a register, angel.”

The duo got up to search for the source of this third voice and spotted what appeared to be a dark-haired, pre-pubescent girl embracing their furry little lodger near the front entrance.

Her similarly dark-haired mother stood beside her, both of them looking relieved beyond measure, with joyful tears in their eyes. The little girl had one of Aziraphale's last remaining flyers balled up in a hand that was currently holding Beast (or whatever she's called now). The daft parchment worked after all, and these were the cat's real owners come at last.

After replacing his sunglasses--for the humans’ sake, of course--Crowley glanced over at his companion, expecting not so joyful tears. But there were none. Aziraphale was perfectly composed, emotionless even. The demon couldn't decide whether to be proud, or concerned, or both. He'll have to wait and see.

“Ah. You must be the caretakers of this animal,” Aziraphale said flatly. “Glad to see you found the flyer.”

“I like that it was a map! I’m _great_ with maps,” said the little girl.

“Yes. I am aware.”

“Thank you so much for minding our Grizzy, Mr. Fell,” said the mother, hugging her daughter, hugging the cat.

“Grizzy?” 

“Short for Grizabella,” the girl said.

“Er, you’re a fan of Lloyd Webber, I take it? Or, erm, Eliot?”

“My daughter is. She loves _all_ musical theatre. We were actually in New York these past few weeks for some Broadway shows and so on, that's why we hadn't gotten back to you sooner. Didn't even find out the cat was missing until after we arrived home, the poor thing."

“The lady next door let her out by accident,” said the girl. “We’re not mad at her, though.”

“Of course. Accidents, erm, _happen_ ,” said Aziraphale.

The girl peered Crowley’s way. Being a demon, he was remarkably good at lurking amongst the shadows, undetected. But not good enough for human children, it would seem.

“Oh! And thank you too, Mister…?”

“That’s on a need-to-know basis, kid.”

“This is Mr. Crowley!”

Aziraphale’s stoic professionalism was rapidly deteriorating, as he said through gritted teeth, “Anthony? _Darling?_ Do keep from being weird around this small child, and her mother, if you may?”

"Who said I was being weird? I'm not being weird."

The girl was pretty adorable, Crowley had to admit, in spite of her questionable tastes in musical theater. And companion animals. 

He also happened to notice the way the girl beamed as she held her beloved pet. And for the first (and last) time, the feline formerly known as Beast was sincerely beautiful in his eyes. Maybe this was how Aziraphale saw her the entire time, and Crowley finally understood. But it was all too little, too late.

The mother-daughter pair proceeded to leave the shop with the cat in tow, as well as a tidy bag of cat-centric paraphernalia, which Aziraphale so generously offered. He also declined all monetary rewards the mother so generously offered in turn. 

Funnily enough, he may have slipped the young girl a birthday certificate to his shop, upon piquing her curiosity with the wide selection of cartography books. She likely won’t bring the cat along after all that’s happened, surely not at her mother’s behest, but one never knows. Though it would be best if she didn’t. For all parties involved.

Crowley was just amazed the angel even _hinted_ at a book sale, a feat he once thought impossible. Then again, he and the angel were technically officially _dating_ now, so what isn’t possible these days?

And with that, Griza-Beast-ella gave the shop, and its primary occupants, one last dreadful stare. And almost as surreptitiously as when she first wandered into their lives, she was out that very same door she once slipped through, and gone.

The silence which immediately followed was deafening. Crowley, in keeping with his delinquent nature, felt the urge to break it.

"Heh, so, you think the mum will save herself the bother by getting her one of those microchips? Er, for the _cat,_ I mean… angel?" 

Aziraphale was gazing wistfully through the front door glass, well after the cat’s family had left. 

Crowley chose to be concerned. “Angel, please say something, you’re-”

“I’ll be in my office, thank you.”

“You all right, though? Need me to get you anything, like, er, cocoa? Or something?”

"Oh, I'm fine, dear," said the angel, forcing a smile and appearing far from fine. "You shouldn't feel compelled to stay; I have oodles of paperwork. We'll do lunch, or even dinner later!"

“ _When_ later?”

“Good day, Crowley!”

Aziraphale shut himself in his office. Crowley knew he could just as easily necessitate the door to open, but he respected his friend’s boundaries too much, just as Aziraphale respected his own.

He remembered the flowers. They should be in water, shouldn't they? And the angel said something about them being on a topmost shelf, in a locked room _—Oh_. 

Never mind. That won’t be an issue any longer.

Crowley found a suitable vase amidst all the clutter, filled it near the top with water from the kitchenette sink, and placed the arrangement in the center of what would constitute for Aziraphale’s dining room table. He only ever ate out, so he scarcely had what would constitute for a dining room. It was yet another space to store increasingly more books.

He also put the truffles in Aziraphale’s ancient fridge, as it kept on miraculously functioning (thanks to a miracle, no less). Just as a precaution. The weather wasn’t stifling hot, or even unseasonably warm. But the angel wouldn’t want them to melt should it turn out that way.

Aside from wanting to check in on his troubled companion, Crowley had no other meager tasks to accomplish for him. But as he was about to take his leave, the demon heard an all too familiar earworm, wriggling forth from the angel's office.

_… Memoryyyy, all alone in the moonliiiight…_

Naturally, Aziraphale would have that sickening soundtrack on hand. Andrew Lloyd Webber will _not_ be on Heaven's shortlist of composers, of this Crowley can affirm.

And whether this was the long-awaited sign—from Above or Below, it didn't matter which—that he needed to help Aziraphale or not, Crowley took it all the same. 

He hand waved the door open (not that it was locked) and moseyed in to pull a protesting Aziraphale up from his chair, out of the bookshop, and onward to _anywhere else_. As long as it was far enough away from his record player. 

Aziraphale's eyes have already reddened from tears, and he can smell the hint of drink on him. Crowley's timing couldn't have been better. The angel might have been preparing to drunkenly _sing along_. He shuddered at the thought.

Crowley poked and prodded Aziraphale all the way towards the Bentley parked out front.

“Ow-- _ow!_ Stop _poking_ me, Crowley, I’m in enough pain as it is!”

The demon, while opening the passenger side door, replied, "Get in the car, Aziraphale."

“Where are you taking me? You know this is most uncouth, even for you, dear boy.”

“It’s a _surprise_ ," Crowley told him, with a whiff of his snake-like charm. "And I promise not to exceed the speed limit. By much. Now kindly sit _down_ and buckle _up_!”

The angel blushed. “Er, yes. If you insist.”

As they entered the vehicle on their respective sides, Crowley found that he quite liked being bossy towards Aziraphale in this way. Aziraphale seemed to like it too, he gathered, and they both might even get a giddy sort of thrill out of it on a better day. But the angel was obviously in something of a mourning phase (albeit for a creature still living), and the demon felt it was in his best interest to find a worthwhile distraction. 

What this distraction should be, though, was the thing.

***

As he drove at almost-nearing-reasonable-enough-for-him high speeds, and the whole of London made way for him in turn, Crowley went over the list of distractive possibilities in his head. 

They could try the zoo. Oh, but they have cats there. The big kind, but still. The West End was out of contention as well. With their luck, they’d end up at a revival of _Cats_. Or _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_. Or _Hamilton_.*

It was almost lunchtime, and Crowley was about to suggest a nice restaurant. Although the next one they go to could have bottles of _cat_ sup instead of ketchup on the table. Or cat-themed decor, if the proprietors were truly evil.

Aziraphale was whimpering. Crowley felt torn on what to do next. "Ah, er, let's have some tunes, shall we?"

Queen's "Killer Queen" was playing because more than a fortnight had passed. At least it was an improvement, musically speaking.

“… Queen? That’s the term for an unspayed female,” said Aziraphale pathetically.

“Oh, heh. I guess Beast might’ve been something of an instinctual killer then, if not a—a _queen_ ,” Crowley said, and immediately regretted doing so. “Shit.”

The angel goggled at him, on the verge of more tears. “Her _name._ Is _Grizabella_. Or were you not there with me, Crowley?!”

"Yes, I know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Crowley just had to go and say the bleeding name of that bleeding cat (which wasn't even hers, to begin with).

Aziraphale was becoming more and more beside himself, and Crowley was beside him being beside himself, so this was not ideal. The demon was nearly beside himself _himself_ , but he had to keep it together for his companion, lest the angel break entirely. 

He tried to keep his mind focused on the drive ahead, and on the song still playing.

_… Drop of a hat she’s as willing as, playful as a pussy cat…_

Those lyrics would do it. The tears doth flow, and Aziraphale lost what scant little remained of his composure. Crowley would even swear he saw it fly out of the open car window, as he was driving right past. The demon gestured the offending music off, but it was too late. Damage done. And he didn't exactly have a hand free to give the bereft angel a handkerchief, or even an awkward yet comforting pat. 

He was more or less attached to the wheel, and thus far too focused on getting them to some heretofore unknown destination. (And also because he was still so inept at this whole consoling a sad person thing.) But surely he could say _something_ to ease a bit of suffering in the meantime?

"Hey! Look at it this way, angel; you won't have to be the one to stuff her in a shoebox and bury her out back, eh?"

Aziraphale gaped at the demon. As if he already went ahead and buried the creature alive in some God-or-Satanforsaken "out back," along with both of their heart-shaped assemblages. Because they shan't be needing them.

Crowley learned not a single blasted thing from the previous night, it seemed. Shutting up would have been the superior option. 

The demon had no choice but to take the angel to the one place he could think of presently, which may or may not be free of any direct feline influence, he couldn't be sure. This destination had been at the back of his mind for all of 24 hours anyhow. Now was as good a time as any for the both of them to finally reach it.

***

The building was considerably old and lived-in. And if the doting, doddering landlady was any indication, it was most certainly well-loved. 

The flat she had available for one Mr. Crowley was "bohemian chic," as the young folks call it, and tailor-made for someone like him. And hopefully for any individual he so happened to bring along.

Crowley gave Aziraphale the full tour, highlighting the two bedrooms—“One of them could be for potential _guests_ , eh? Yes/no/maybe so?"—and the sizeable sitting room. The place was semi-furnished, but there was more than enough space left to fill in the rest. Most of it to be set aside for books, without a doubt. And perhaps a decent number of plants. 

He remarked on the exposed brick wall, and the exceptional views of the park nearby. It would be a brief drive back and forth to Soho, without even taking the demon's excessive speeding into account. Any number of well-reviewed cafés, pubs, and restaurants were within walking distance. An elegant manicure was also only a few steps away at the local nail parlor (mainly for the angel's sake, but the demon did like to indulge in a relaxing pedicure now and then). In short, the whole thing was damn near perfect.

“So? What d’you think?” Crowley asked.

He waited with bated breath for a response, and as one for whom the act of breathing was optional. Aziraphale should have the last word on this, after all. Even if the angel is overwhelmed at present.

“This is all so--I mean. My dear boy, you simply went ahead and--for _me? And_ you? After all these years, Crowley, and now we--and now _this_?” 

As he gave his stilted speech, Aziraphale flailed his arms about hither and yon to emphasize his point, whatever that may be. Crowley had all day and into the next millennium to wait on a more coherent answer. But he did like to prod the angel so. 

“Such a profound grasp of the English language you have there, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, bugger it then, I’m _thrilled!_ ”

 _Aziraphale said bugger. Should this count as the last word? Yes. Yes, it should_ , Crowley decided.

“Excellent!” the demon exclaimed. “And the landlady mentioned we could keep pets here. Er, if and when you feel up to the task.”

The angel looked pleasantly shocked. “… _Pets?_ ”

“Yeah, all the tenants have ‘em here. And not just the usual kinds, either. The bloke next door keeps a flock of pigeons. On the roof! A couple downstairs has a great, big Burmese python in their tub. They _might’ve_ fed it a door-to-door proselytizer? Oh, but this is likely unfounded rumor, angel, no need to worry.” 

The more Crowley talked it up for Aziraphale, the more he himself grew to like this place. And he _already_ liked it. “Heh, maybe the two of us could be neighborly--myself and the, er, snake, I mean. It's as good an excuse as any to brush up on my 'parseltongue'.”

"Of course, dearest! And I would be most appreciative if you put your back to this lovely exposed brick here," said a bright-eyed Aziraphale, as he patted that specified area of the wall.

"Er, sure thing," the perplexed Crowley said while situating himself in front of it. "Is there a reason for-?"

“I would very much like to kiss you now, if I may?”

Crowley needed a minute. 

Aziraphale has never before been so blatant with him in terms of romantic gestures, nor with such bold confidence. Why, when the angel first shyly suggested they hold hands, his were so profusely sweaty that they couldn't get a decent grip on one another. And they had only properly kissed the once, earlier that same day, so things were already moving along at a breakneck pace. The demon's head was in a whirlwind, but he liked this feeling. He _existed_ for this feeling. It was just a lot to process. And wasn’t Crowley the fast one in this relationship? As if finding a new place for them wasn’t a daring enough leap forward on his part. Though who’s to say they both couldn’t share such a descriptor? A speed demon and a speed angel. This could work.

Crowley, at long last, answered, “You _may_ , angel.”

Aziraphale was on him in an instant.

He pressed the demon hard against the wall, lifting him some centimeters off the floor by the lapels as their lips once again made contact.

This zealous move served to remind Crowley of a comparable one he pulled on his friend not too long ago; at that former Satanic hospital, under vastly different circumstances, and sans all lip-locking. 

_Must've taken a mental note back then,_ Crowley supposed, grateful that he did.

The angel was afire, planting dozens of insatiable little kisses across the demon's face and neck, signature shades becoming awry as a result. And although the act itself was gloriously intense, it was all a smidge too hot and heavy, too “try-hard”, especially coming from the likes of his Aziraphale.

Crowley felt the need to chime in. “ _Mmf_ —angel? Mind, er, bringing it down a notch?”

Aziraphale jolted back to him. “Oh! Terribly sorry, dearest. Should I-?”

“Take it _slow._ ”

“Right!”

Aziraphale ceased. Then--while using the rest of his body to keep the demon aloft--he moved his delicately strong hands up and over Crowley's chest, up to those crooked glasses, and set them, with great care, atop his head.

He placed both hands on either side of Crowley’s face, holding it reverently. Eyes of calming blue stared into ones of harsh yellow, and with all the thousands upon thousands of years' worth of tender, loving regard they had accumulated.

Crowley, however, was feeling slightly self-conscious about his eyes at the moment and prayed they didn't remind his companion of another, similar set. But no such issue came up. _Thank God—or, er, Satan. Or Whomever_.

In his daze, Crowley almost forgot about his own upper extremities. He placed them accordingly over Aziraphale's shoulders and neck, letting one hand glide upward into the angel's cloud of soft, white-blond hair. The demon knew his own head of flaming red must have gotten mussed in all the frenzy, but he could care less. 

Crowley had to remind himself to shut his eyelids when Aziraphale did the same after so long a wordless gaze. He'll happily let the other senses take over. Though not before having acquired the necessary mental imagery of his angel in this new mode. 

But shut them he did, as he pulled Aziraphale in for the kiss. Slower and sweeter this time, just like the first.

And as they did so, the angel's hands slid further down, resting one on the bricks by the demon's left side, and landing the other, oh so gingerly, on the demon's right hip. 

The two remained this way, silently savoring one another like so much finely aged wine. Or blended malt scotch (with just a hint of cocoa) in the angel’s case, as the demon could readily detect. Crowley honestly would've kept it at that, but Aziraphale was more than willing to progress, despite his lack of skill in this area. Or because of it.

Aziraphale may have something of a way with words, but he was not yet equipped for the more advanced kissing. Understandable for a mostly innocent entity, though one doing rather well for himself, regardless. Luckily for him, Crowley could do all sorts of interesting things with that particular muscle. He was perfectly eager to show Aziraphale the ropes.

The demon coaxed the angel's already starved mouth open ever wider, and began to work his small miracle. They touched tentatively at first, then graduated to gentle caresses, taking their blessed time all the while. And, after a while, he swore he heard Aziraphale moan, startling his eyes back open.

Crowley will never forget that sound. He'll never forget the touch, or the taste, or the smell of Aziraphale at this very moment. He’ll never forget this beautiful brick wall, uncomfortably jutting into his back. Crowley will never forget _any_ of it.

Then came a loud whirring. Crowley wished he could forget that.

"Sorry loves, only tidying up the corridor! Don't mind me, carry on, carry on," said the doting, doddering landlady, seen with her artifact of a vacuum cleaner just outside the open door to the flat. 

If it was a newer model, it might have produced a more tolerable noise. And the two of them might have been able to carry on with what they were doing.

 _Of course, we didn't think to close that_ _ruddy door beforehand_ , Crowley realized. 

Aziraphale, crimson-faced, reluctantly broke off from him. Crowley descended to the floor once more. Sunglasses, hairstyles, and miscellaneous articles of clothing were all readjusted to their previous, pre-snogged state. Neither party was prepared to look the other in the eye just yet. 

Then Aziraphale looked up at Crowley.

“… Let’s have lunch,” said the angel.

“Er, yes! Let’s! ”

***

The pair got to the restaurant with nary a hitch. Unless you count all the near-constant touching as they exited the new flat, and throughout the short drive.

It was reasonably chaste touching, and not the type to be a significant detractor from Crowley's already questionable driving. But it was a pleasant enough diversion for either party, and one that made them miss their chosen location the first, and then second, time around.

Upon reaching the main entrance, Crowley held the door open for Aziraphale. But they couldn't walk in. They were too busy gazing at each other like besotted idiots, and laughing at the marvelous, ludicrous nature of it all. 

A more symbolic door had opened on some newfound aspects to their relationship, and it was exhilarating to think where it could lead them next, if not only to more passionate necking. Crowley already had several ideas, but he'll run them all by Aziraphale later, in due time.

Meanwhile, the door in Crowley's hand opened up to some aromatic food. And there was a group of very hungry, very annoyed people lining up behind them as they blocked the entrance. The two made their way inside before a scene could start.

The hostess showed them to their window adjacent booth. Once they placed their orders, and while continuing the streak of near-constant touches (a brush of one's fingers against the other's atop the table, a graze of one's foot against the other's underneath), the angel said, "Erm, Crowley? I have something I really should confess to you. I should have confessed to it much sooner, but—oh, goodness me, is that a fresh bruise on your _neck?_ ”

"Eh?" said the demon. He examined his reflection in the window and saw the culprit mark. "Well, I'll be, angel. Your first love bite, and a nice one too! I'll be sure to add it to the _collection_.”

"But—but it can't be like the ones in your _permanent_ batch, can it? Oh, I’m so sorry I did that to you in my frenzied state,” Aziraphale said, hands covering his face in shame.

Aziraphale did listen in at lunch all those weeks ago, it turns out. Crowley wished he wasn't so amazed by this. He should know the angel better by now. Then again, they apparently have so much more to learn from one another, which is an exciting prospect in itself.

"You didn't do anything wrong,” Crowley said as he placed a comforting hand on the angel’s arm, leading him to peek out from behind his wall of shame. “I actually, er, enjoyed the frenzied kisses, almost as much as the more restrained ones. And I wasn't serious about the collection bit; it'll go away soon enough. I'll have to take a photo, though, for posterity's sake. Is that all you were concerned about?"

“Oh, no, I only just noticed it. You see, what I meant to tell you was, well, I—," Aziraphale was wringing his hands, more so than in his usual anxiety-riddled states. "Well, you see, I—I created the breeze! The one that blew away all those flyers that day? It was me _,_ Crowley, all me, I’m so _dreadfully_ sorry!”

"…Is that all? I knew that. I thought you would admit to snogging your throw pillows as a form of practice."

“Throw pillows? _What?”_ the angel said, turning a deep scarlet. This shade, on top of all the others he's managed recently, was making him into a regular color swatch. 

“I’m kidding! But it could explain how you were so surprisingly adept today.”

“ _Surprising—_ wait. You _knew_ about the breeze, and yet you never told me? I thought you wanted the cat gone.”

"I may not have been taken with, er, Grizzy. Nor was she with me, let's be honest here. But that stunt you pulled? Classic bastard move, and one I could only sit back and admire,” he said, sitting back to admire the angel.

“And it was yet another reason to like you so much," Crowley continued, with a devilish smile.

(It was also yet another reason to _love_ the angel so much, but he’ll save that declaration for another day. Preferably soon.) 

Aziraphale was glowing at the previous statement, then receded to appearing guilt-ridden again. “But I wanted to selfishly keep the cat all to myself, away from that sweet girl.”

“That girl still found her, and by using that insane map you doodled like some kind of, I dunno, navigational prodigy. All this in spite of your best/worst efforts to sabotage everything. It was almost as though it was supposed to happen this way, as odd as that sounds. Like, some sadistic storyteller wrote this convoluted excuse for a plot to get us here. And by using a cat, of all things, as the means to do so.”**

“So, you’re saying...,” Aziraphale said, looking pensive. “... this was all in God’s Plan? God’s _Ineffable_ Plan? Am I hearing this correctly, and out of _your_ mouth, my dear?”

“Er, no! I did _not_ say that! Not—not in so many words,” the demon said, losing himself in the theological weeds he’d much rather avoid at all costs. 

“I’m only saying you were kind of, sort of _meant_ to keep that cat for as long as you did, maybe? And for as long as you did, you gave that cat food, shelter, and heaps of care until the owners could even make it back across the pond. Then you graciously handed her over to them, and they were so thankful. You did a good thing, Aziraphale. 

“And, as much as it pains me to say—," Crowley heaved a much-beleaguered sigh. "—the animal got me to realize some things. About me. About _us_ going forward. It was because of her I got off my complacent tail and found us that flat."

"You were far from alone. She got me to realize some things about you and me too, the little miracle worker," Aziraphale said with adoration. 

Then he smirked at Crowley. "Is this your circuitous way of admitting you were secretly fond of her this whole time?"

“Bite your wicked tongue!” the demon said, grinning. The angel wasn't entirely false in this assumption. But Crowley will be hard-pressed to admit to it.

"Oh, bite it yourself," Aziraphale said. Crowley couldn't tell if he meant this in a literal sense, but he relished the implication. "And, you know, I don't think I'm ready for another pet. Not for quite a while anyway, though I will miss having one around. I may consider volunteering at one of those animal shelters in the meantime, perhaps on weekends? 

“Lots of humans who don't care for other humans do that sort of thing as a requisite good deed, or so I'm told. I don't see why an angel couldn't. But I do promise not to spirit all of the felines away in a moment of weakness. I couldn't very well hoard books _and_ cats at the shop. Certainly not at our new place.”

 _Our new place_. Crowley will never get over that. He’ll still keep A. J. Crowley’s flat on retainment. And Aziraphale will keep A. Z. Fell’s bookshop in operation until the actual End of Days. But the two of them will now and forever have _their_ place. And in whatever shape it may take.

Their plates arrived. The food was delicious, and even Crowley saw fit to partake in both his own and Aziraphale’s (and with just a single glass of wine this time). Of course, it was made all the better with the best company. 

The angel and the demon left the restaurant soon after with arms entwined and were making their way towards the Bentley. Then Aziraphale stopped dead on the pavement.

“Crowley! _Look!_ ” the angel said enthusiastically, holding tight to his companion’s arm with one hand, and pointing across the street with the other.

“What? What am I looking at?”

And then Crowley saw it. The front of a soon-to-be-opened establishment, still in the process of being painted in bright pastel hues of pink, yellow and green. Stylized paw prints and so forth also decorated the exterior, and a sandwich board out front gave him all the crucial information. 

It was to be a cat-themed café, though with actual live cats inside, for any future patrons to play with or potentially adopt. Crowley only semi-joked to himself about the possibility of such a restaurant with feline-centric decor. Was this taking it a step too far? Not for these magnificent, mental human beings, it would seem.

The angel was poised to jump up and down. “It’s opening in less than a fortnight. Dearest, do you think we could-?”

“Spot’s already reserved for us, angel.”

“You’re wonderful,” said Aziraphale as he held the demon’s hand to his lips, kissing it sweetly.

Crowley was more than eager to oblige him. Still, even as someone who so stubbornly managed to forge his own side in the eternal conflict between Heaven and Hell—and with Aziraphale in tandem nearly every step of the way—he couldn't keep from asking, of Whomever would deign to listen, this one simple question;

_Why couldn’t it have been_ dogs?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * With lyrics that reference a certain feral tomcat named after the titular founding father, by none other than Martha Washington herself, though this is likely historically false.  
> ** Demons, more so than angels, insistently question the meta-narrative of their very existence, and this could be a key reason God expelled them from Heaven in the first place. Or because She, as a sadistic storyteller, just thought it would add some much-needed conflict.


End file.
